Adventures in Neal-Sitting
by Stamper Comma Leland
Summary: "Rule number one," she replies, sticking her index finger up in the air. Peter grins. Neal blinks. "Rule number one." Peter nods. "What is it, Neal?" "Uh..." They simply stare, both at a loss for words, as he quickly references his rule sheet. "Listen to El."
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Okay, so I just wanted to write an El and Neal fic. I admit it. Once again, written using Write or Die, so I apologize for any off-kilter trains of thought.

**Adventures in Neal-Sitting**

* * *

Peter takes Neal by the arm, takes him to the side, pulls him away from El and points an authoritative finger in his face.

"You listen to her."

"Of course I'll listen to her."

"I mean it."

"I know you do, Peter, and of course I will." Neal's voice is smooth and not at all patronizing. He looks soft and genuine, eager to please, and El rolls her eyes at her husband. She knows, you see. She knows Neal _thinks_ he means it. And she knows Peter is merely making sure things go smoothly while he's away, but she's been babysitting since she was a pop-star-obsessed junior high schooler, reading Bop! Magazine in a pink room, her hair a mass of curls, her mouth blowing a bubble as big as her child-sized face. Neal-sitting will be admittedly different, but she knows. She knows Neal and she knows her husband and she can enforce the set rules with a smile and a nudge, no matter Neal's blue-eyed sad looks or his conman's charm. She knows Neal like she knows the back of Peter's hand, because he's not quite hers, but she's known him since the night Peter came home with that boy's name like a code he couldn't crack, and she watched his face for nights on end, his brows knit, his eyes growing tired, trying to fit that last piece to make the picture, take that last swing of the net to catch that kid so like a clever fish, quick and slippery to the touch. He's not cold, though. Neal's a lot of things, manipulative and impulsive, and a yes, a little vain, but never cold. And he's had Peter by the other hand since before he's even been aware, but Elizabeth has been sharing since she was a three-year-old in preschool and she knew someday, marriage wouldn't be just the two of them anymore.

She knew someday she might forget a pill, or Peter might turn over his awkward leaf and pose the question, ask if it was in the cards, and she always knew, still knows, that he would make a terrific one if they were those types of people.

"I'm trusting you to behave, Neal," Peter says, and there's something gentler in his tone. It's not an order, it's an admission, and Neal looks to the ground like his facade has momentarily crumbled and nods his head.

"Thank you for keeping me out of the supermax for the week," he says quietly.

"You thank El," Peter replies, and nudges Neal's chin with a good-natured knuckle before moving away from his CI and towards Elizabeth, leans down and kisses her with lips even softer than that fist. "You sure this is okay?"

"It's fine," she says with a smirk. "You need to stop worrying."

"It's just-"

"_Stop_ worrying," Elizabeth says, putting a finger to his lips. "I've known him for just as long as you have, hon. Longer than he's known us. I can handle him."

"If he brings any of his shenanigans into this house-"

"I won't," Neal says, eyes wide and hurt. "I would never-"

"He won't, Peter," Elizabeth says. "Look at that face." Peter forgets himself, looks at her like she's crazy, and she snorts. "Really?"

He shakes his head with a smile. "Smart."

"Always. Smarter than you seem to think, even. Think I would be fooled by _that_ face?"

Neal protests. Neal continues to protest for quite a while, as Peter hands them both a carefully laid out list of rules, printed in a clean font-face, and proceeds to go over them so as avoid any loopholes, to disambiguate anything that Neal might argue after Peter returns home from his week-long venture to Washington D.C. and doles out whatever FBI-mandated discipline the conman might require.

The gist of the rules goes something like this:

1) Listen to El.

2) No shenigans, tomfoolery, monkey business, or other.

3) Anklet stays on at all times, no exceptions.

4) Curfew at 10 o'clock sharp.

"What?" Neal breaks in, then shakes his head as if trying to clear it of a rather thick fog, clears his throat as if to excuse himself. "Peter, with all due respect, I'm of an age where a curfew is a little demeaning and-"

"Necessary," Peter says. "Anything you would be doing past that hour is something you probably shouldn't be doing at all. You're not at work this week, you're here. With my wife. Being, hopefully, a _good boy_."

"I'm not Satchmo!" Neal exclaims. "Peter, honestly, you know you can't expect me to follow a curfew like a teenager or a Liberty University student. I'm not going to-"

"I know you're not," Peter says. "Because you have a curfew. This isn't up for negotiation. It's standard protocol. June could give you a curfew, too, if she felt the need."

"She doesn't."

"And she's not in charge of you this week, El is."

"Then Elizabeth should be the one to decide, shouldn't she?" Neal shoots back, and abruptly turns to Elizabeth with eyes wide and full of good intentions. "You know I would never get up to anything under your care, right, Elizabeth?"

And it's already started. Elizabeth remembers being fourteen and on the receiving end of ten dollars simply for putting an obstinate child to bed at the correct hour. Granted she lured him there with the promises of stories and a hidden stash of candy (what self-respecting fourteen-year-old performs her babysitting duties with the same air of responsibility as an actual parental unit, anyway?) but it got the job done, and her the money. Neal-sitting is a different story. Ten bucks is ten bucks, but this is her husband's reputation, and Neal's freedom, however limited, on the line. This situation is far more precarious.

"Sorry, Neal," she says with a smile, and pats his arm with a soft hand. "Rule stands."

"But E_liz_abeth." It's half a horrified gasp, half a whine, and Elizabeth is amazed to hear it come out of a grown man's mouth. She takes it in stride, though, because if Peter can handle Neal, Elizabeth can handle Neal. Not that it's a competition, it's just truth. Fact. Elizabeth is perfectly capable of doing this, and doing it right.

"Rule number one," she replies, sticking her index finger up in the air.

Peter grins. Neal blinks.

"Rule number one." Peter nods. "What is it, Neal?"

"Uh..."

They simply stare, both at a loss for words, as he quickly references his rule sheet. "Listen to El."

It's then that Elizabeth gets it. It's not that she didn't get it before, either, it's just that now she _really _gets it. Neal, funny, charming, Mensa-levels of smart Neal, has no regard for rules. She knows he can memorize on sight. He's helped her make dinner before and managed not to look at the recipe but once throughout the duration of the cook. That was more than four ingredients, too, the first of which was harder to remember than a simple "Listen to El." But a list of rules? Four rules, which they've stripped to the bare bones? Neal actually _needs_ the reference sheet like a thirsty dog needs water.

"I'm, um..." Elizabeth holds up her own list. "I'm just going to put this up on the refrigerator."

And maybe she could use several more copies for all the doors of the house. And all the mirrors. And a small one to tuck into Neal's hat, because this is going to be a long week and, not for the first time since he's been in their lives, Neal has twisted her head all the way around, skewed her perspective because she's no longer looking after a man - suave nuisance that he may be. No, she's looking after a very tall, very troublesome child who has only recently grasped that the reason you look both ways before crossing is so you don't end up a splatter of flesh and blood on the city street.

He has to get it, she thinks. Because if he doesn't get it, doesn't get that he has to listen to her, that he can't engage in all sorts of unlawful mischief, that his anklet stays on his ankle, that a curfew exists so he doesn't succumb to the temptations alive after nightfall - then he'll end up back in a place that's too cold for someone as warm as Neal.

She pins the list to the refrigerator with a magnet, confidence sinking to the soles of her shoes.

**To be continued...**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** So, I think El and Neal might have a rather long week as I just seem to want to write snippets of the things they get up to. Neal will surely get up to some mischief along the way, of course, as I have the feeling the ability to trust is the overarching theme of the story. Sorry about the ending to this chapter. Apparently I'm in a sad mood. Passage from _The Sound and the Fury_, by William Faulkner, of course.

* * *

It feels colder with Peter gone, it always does. It doesn't help that it's a cold day outside, frigid and blustery to the point where Elizabeth's fair skin pinks within seconds of stepping out the door. She's more of a fall or a spring person than a winter or a summer person. She likes to avoid extremes, dance the lines between them. She's a wife and a career woman, but she doesn't spend all her time being either. Sometimes she's just Elizabeth, with a book and a tea and a smart remark to throw at anyone who decides to interrupt. These characteristics don't match up with her relationships, however - she's married to a lawman who has all but adopted a thief. A thief who is currently bouncing on the balls of his feet like he can't settle down, whistling a jaunty tune perfectly on pitch.

"Neal, do you need something to do?" she asks, looking up from the brim of her steaming beverage with a quirked brow, because he's only about fifteen feet away, his hands stuffed in his pockets, looking conspicuously to the side, or to the ceiling, or to the floor, anywhere but at her like he wants something but doesn't want to ask for it.

The whistle stops, and his eyes finally turn to her, startled at first by the question, and then replaced by something steady and calculated. A smile spreads across his face as he shuffles the short distance over to where she's sitting in the living room chair. He nods eagerly, takes her cup just as she's setting it down and sets it down for her as if he's a hired servant paid to attend to her every whim.

Her brows go even higher. "You _do_ want something to do?" she says.

"Would you like me to walk Satchmo?" he says, "It's cold outside, and you look so warm and cozy with your tea and..._The Sound and the Fury_."

"Not light reading," she admits.

"Faulkner, though. You would definitely have Mozzie's stamp of approval. So, Satchmo?"

_I'm not Peter_, she thinks, even though everything in her gut is telling her differently because she is. She's suddenly suspicious of Neal's every move. "You want to tell me why you're so eager to walk Satchmo in this weather?"

Hurt hurls itself through steady calculation at the speed of light. Neal blinks and it's gone and Elizabeth needs a moment to contain herself, to not apologize for being accusatory, because its not like she doesn't have reason. He couldn't remember the first rule, she reminds herself. The easiest rule. And if he can't remember the first, how is he supposed to remember the second? At least the third is a perpetual weight around his limb, and the fourth he made too much of a fuss over to ever forget. Come to think of it, does Neal even know what tomfoolery is? And if he does, what does he consider to be tomfoolery? Does he think the limits of such a concept rest in previously unsuccessful treasure hunts and high-stress museum heists?

"I was just trying to help, Elizabeth," Neal says, and the sincerity doesn't sound overly formal, or forced, just raw and there. "I get a little antsy when I'm kept in one place for too long. It's why Peter doesn't like me on stakeouts. I get really annoying, you see, and I can't stand the smell of the deviled ham sandwiches he likes so much and then I start silently berating him for eating such a smelly food, and I swear on everything, he hears it. Like a telepathic bat. Or maybe he just sees my face. I guess that's more conducive to reality, huh? Oh, wait, you don't make him those sandwiches, do you? Because if you do, I'm sure they're absolutely impeccable-"

"Neal."

"Yes, Elizabeth?"

"You're not on house arrest. You can stay out until...?" She trails off, hoping he'll take the bait and answer. Hoping he'll remember.

"Until?" Neal prompts.

"Rule number four," Elizabeth says, and picks up her tea again. She waits and takes a sip as Neal's eyes go somewhere far away, like a child who forgot the answer to a test and slips off into his imagination. "Neal, I know you know this-"

"Ten!" Neal says, eyes snapping back to the present and smile overtaking his mouth as he abruptly cuts her off. "Of course I know, Elizabeth. I was just hoping you would change your mind, that's all."

She doesn't feel the need to respond to that because there's no way in hell she's changing her mind. She's capable of this. She's capable of handling Neal and seeing him through this week without having him or his limited freedom escape her. Her confidence may have waned for a while there, but she's strong now. And yes, also, cozy and warm and Neal can, indeed, walk Satchmo.

"No longer then fifteen minutes out there with Satchmo. It's cold," she says, picking up her book. "Do you want to eat dinner with me tonight or are you going out to Babbo's or some other fancy dive?"

"It's not fancy if it's a dive, Elizabeth," Neal says over his shoulder, already in the foyer, going for Satchmo's leash. "That's an oxymoronic statement. Satch! Satchmo!" The sound of large paws makes its way down the stairs and towards the call. Neal pokes his head back into the living room, "And I want to eat dinner with you, of course."

Elizabeth fights a smile, then wonders why she's fighting it. She smiles, swallows down the lingering self-doubt that comes with not knowing her own motivations. "Don't forget your coat, Neal," she says before he manages to open the door in just his sweater.

"How June-like of you," he says, and she hears the rustle of heavy fabric as he pulls his coat off the hanger. "Feels just like home."

She rolls her eyes as her beloved dog leaves the house with a known felon. Sometimes it's hard with Neal, to separate the person she knows with what she knows he is. Or does. Or did. Allegedly. If he hadn't done some of it he wouldn't be here, so she supposes she should be grateful that she has at least one boy on the wrong side of the law if that means that she gets to know him. Because for as much as she hates the feeling of doubt he leaves her, as much as she hates the changing depths of distrust she wades in, she is so very glad that she knows him.

They have dinner at six, and a night in. Neal reads her his favorite passages from _The Sound and the Fury. _He smiles as he reads, even as his eyes go sad: "_I seemed to be lying neither asleep nor awake looking down a long corridor of gray halflight where all stable things had become shadowy paradoxical all I had done shadows all I had felt suffered taking visible form antic and perverse mocking without relevance inherent themselves with the denial of the significance they should have affirmed thinking I was I was not who was not was not who_."

She walks into his room that first night and checks to make sure he's in bed. He is, his face soft, his hair brushing the tops of his eyelids. She tucks the comforter up around his shoulders, brushes a hand over his hair, and tries not to think about how that passage reminds her of him.


	3. Chapter 3

"Where is he."

She'd come back from work feeling tired and hungry and ready to slap many a person across the face for far too many changing demands in too short a time. It was a long day in more than feeling. She didn't walk through her front door until 9:45 pm to find the house empty except for Satchmo, the house dark except for one lamp kept on to comfort Satchmo. Satchmo, but no Neal and now here she is. At 9:58 pm, here she is, two phones in two hands calling one person, but not the other.

"I won't call Peter," she tells herself and Satchmo cocks his head, looking at her expectantly. She brightens her tone just for his amusement, speaks in that baby voice she and Peter have taken with the dog since he was a puppy sliding across their hardwood floors. "No, I won't. I won't call Peter."

But Neal isn't picking up his phone. She calls for a third time, leaves him a message with a simple, "Neal, it's Elizabeth. Remember to be home in two minutes. More like one minute and nine seconds. Remember to be home in one minute." And she hangs up the phone.

One minute later, her text includes two simple words in all caps: BIG TROUBLE.

She doesn't know what BIG TROUBLE entails exactly, and she's certain that when or if Neal sees it, he just laughs, but Elizabeth is quite serious. There will be BIG TROUBLE. Maybe not Peter big, not supermax big, but Elizabeth big.

She snorts derisively at her own Elizabethan machismo. What is she going to do? Wag her finger at him and speak demeaningly to him about his 'misbehavior?' That's what Peter does. Maybe she should just threaten to call Peter. Her mind reels back to being seven years old, riding her bike a block too far and coming home with a scraped knee from the resulting fall, pleading with her mother not to tell her father of her own mild disobedience because Elizabeth knew where her boundaries were and on most occasions, respected them with the air a child usually does. Boundaries existed because your parents made them, and when you crossed them, your Barbies got taken away for a designated period of time and then how were you supposed to take all their clothes off and make them walk around all silly and naked?

This time Elizabeth giggles to herself, because she's a woman with no child-sized people running around, and sometimes when she's sure that Neal's a blipping dot in a Manhattan apartment, she makes Peter walk around like she did her Ken dolls. He's getting older, but he's still beautiful and tall, and it works for her, him being silly and naked and wonderful. Besides, those with the dangerous job owe it to the people around them to be silly and naked. It's an unwritten law, and Peter adheres to it, blushes and leans down into her kisses when she tilts up onto her toes with her lips smiling and ready.

Why is she thinking about this again?

Oh, right. Ken. Barbies. Her mother calling her father. And what would her father do? Her father would take one look at her tear-stained face and take her out for ice cream, ending the night in a tickle battle that would have her howling with laughter and more tears, but the right kind this time.

Peter is not her father. Peter would not tickle Neal, or take one look at Neal's face and take him out for ice cream. He'd be more apt to say, "You just wait until I get home." or "What am I going to do with you?" or give one of those disapproving lectures in that disappointed voice and Neal would look at her, would look at Elizabeth, with big blue eyes and one ear to the phone, silently begging for an interruption.

_Please, please. No, stay. Don't go,_ he said once, holding out his hand pleadingly, but Elizabeth walked away.

She's tough like that. And Peter is the perfect threat. She'll hold that one in her back pocket for next time, because she hears the door now, the gentle, slow turning of the knob, like a circumspect someone is out there trying to enter extremely quietly.

_Neal George Caffrey_, her mother would say.

Elizabeth is not her mother. "Where the hell have you been?" she asks as soon as the door cracks open, and then the vintage toe of a vintage shoe steps inside, then a hand holding out a white plastic bag filled with a rather large box of dog treats, and a surrendering voice, "Satch was all out of dog treats."

Elizabeth sighs and rolls her eyes. "Get in here, Neal."

She crisply takes the bag into her hand, and walks into the kitchen with Neal at her heels. "Why didn't you pick up your phone?" she asks, placing the dog treats in the cabinet she keeps for Satchmo's things.

"I didn't hear it go off?"

"That's a question?"

"No, uh, I didn't, Elizabeth. I didn't hear it go off."

She turns to him. He's looking down at his feet like a chastised child, his limbs stiff, his breathing deep like he's waiting for something. It looks normal, natural, not like a lie, but Neal knows how to lie. She wonders if he had a mother once, or a father, if either of them were ever aware. When did his talents manifest? Has he been so convincingly transformative since the womb?

"You didn't check the time."

He holds out his wrist. "I have a watch."

He does, and it's a nice watch. Of course it's a nice watch.

"Take out your phone," she says, and he glances at her first, blue peeking out from under dark lashes and it's a moment to melt the earth, that one look, full of apology and self-flagellation. Neal Caffrey's charm, his very essence, seeps through the room so thick Elizabeth can barely see through it. "Take it out," she insists, wondering how she can even breathe, he's laying it on so thick.

He does. He holds it in his hand and stares at it, then at the ground. "You called three times."

"I called three times."

"You spelled 'big trouble' in all caps."

She did that, too. She nods.

"I'm sorry, Elizabeth. It won't happen-"

"Where were you? And don't say you were getting Satchmo treats. It does not take that long, nor is it that important to get Satchmo treats. Not at this time of night. What were you doing all day that you had to get Satchmo treats when you were supposed to be home?"

He gapes at her momentarily, before realizing what he's doing and containing himself. There's something uncomfortable writhing around with Elizabeth's insides. Neal's an adult and all this prodding suddenly doesn't feel right; it feels like an invasion.

"Neal-"

"I was painting," he says. "At June's. I was painting. I lose track of time sometimes when I'm doing that. I'm so, so sorry, Elizabeth."

An alarm goes off in Elizabeth's head at the admission, because she knows what Peter knows because Peter tells her everything he knows. When Neal paints, he's usually up to something. Or he's thinking about something too hard. And because she doesn't want to think the former, and because she's already feeling far too hyper-vigilant, she's going to give him the benefit of a doubt.

The benefit of a doubt being that Neal is in some sort of deep emotional turmoil and needs her constant attention so he doesn't do anything stupid.

"You can bring your paints here," she tells him. "Or we can get you some supplies in. There's an art store close to my work-"

"I don't want to make a mess of your beautiful home-"

"Your art isn't a mess," she says. "You know that. We can at least get you a sketchpad and some drawing utensils if you don't want to paint here. Not that you're not allowed to go to June's, but Peter's told me that when you paint, you-"

"I swear I'm not up to anything," he says, a little too quickly, and she narrows her eyes.

"I believe you," she lies. "But I want you to come to work with me tomorrow, anyway. I could use your eye and your palate."

His eyes go to the ground again, and he shifts on his feet like he's just received a harsh and decidedly well-deserved sentence. She can't believe its only the second day of this and she's already being forced to engage in Take Your Conman To Work Day, which, in her mind, she has somehow concocted as a sentence lighter than the threat of calling Peter.

"Of course, Elizabeth," he mumbles, and then, unconvincingly, "I'd love to."

"Good," she says, and reaches forward to pat his arm. "Good talk."

Whatever kind of talk that was. But she's a tough one, Elizabeth is, just like her husband. She's not usually given to his lack of emotional prowess, however, and now, looking at Neal's downtrodden face and his slumped shoulders, she realizes that she just handled this situation in a way that was Pure Peter. Not one ounce El. And while she's standing in, she can't substitute herself. Neal needs a Peter and an El, not just a Peter. She has to be both for him.

He almost squeaks when she throws her arms around him and kisses his cheek. "Oh, Neal, what am I going to do with you?"

He chuckles, and she feels like she's done something right, found the right combination, the right amount of Elizabeth and the right amount of Peter for a curfew-breaking convict. It may not be tickles and it may not be ice cream, and it sure as hell isn't heinous parental Barbie-thievery, but whatever it is, it's right.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** A switch to Neal's perspective. A warning: plot is not my forte. I know nothing about fake jewels or the crafting of jewelry, so if any of you are masters in the art of forgery and my vague mentions of the practice are offensive to your delicate sensibilities, I sincerely apologize in advance. Though it...doesn't get into it at all, so hopefully that won't happen. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as you can.

* * *

It all started one week, one day, and ten hours ago when Mozzie rushed into Neal's apartment, quick and small and squirrel-like as he squeaked through the door and abruptly closed it with his back to the wood, practically vibrating with news, eyes huge behind his glasses. He knew someone.

"I know someone," he said, trying to catch his breath.

And Neal sat down, knowing then that the act of sitting was a necessity because Mozzie's eyes were screaming money signs at him. Money signs and trouble.

"His name is Bartimaeus. No last name."

"Bartimaeus?" Neal said, quizzical.

Mozzie sat then, placed his hands genteelly on Neal's dining table, narrowed his eyes and looked off to the side, huffy and affronted. "You heard me."

"Aw, c'mon, Moz. It's a weir- an unusual name."

"It's classic."

"Biblical does _not_ mean classic."

The argument ensued. Anyway, the purpose of this particular anecdote is not Bartimaeus or his biblical name so much as it is the troubling effects this encounter with Mozzie as a whole has on Neal now. For Bartimaeus, like Neal, is also an expert in the art of forgery - a different sort however, for his hands craft jewelry; not paintings, not sculptures.

"A diamond bracelet in the shape of a male lion, mouth open to consume its prey," Mozzie said, seemingly unconscious of how he was raising his hands from the table and splaying his fingers out to mimic claws. "He's created a replica imperceptible from the original using a mix of moissanite and zircon. Once it's behind its glass case, nobody will be the wiser."

"I expect he has a buyer overseas?"

"In Stockholm. 15.2 million dollars, Neal, of which we'll get a 50 percent cut."

The sound of it set Neal's heart a-thunder. He lost himself in the fantasy of being what he used to be, slithery like a snake, but still handsome, pulling the wool over the eyes of the rich and entitled and unsuspecting. He plotted with Mozzie for three nights before one morning, at work, Peter came out of his office and pointed two portentous fingers at Neal, inciting a low, dooming whistle from Jones.

"What did you do this time, Caffrey?"

"Nothing that I know of," Neal said, but his chest clenched with a scintilla of anxiety because nobody had ever caught him at anything except for Peter. And Peter had caught him twice.

But how would he know?

Simple answer: he didn't.

"I'm being shipped off to D.C. for a week to speak at a Bureau conference, and to help with a case. You'll be staying here."

And that's how it all began. That's what led him to be here on this very early Tuesday morning, trailing Elizabeth through the door of Burke Premiere Events. Monday was a trial. They - Mozzie and Neal - had found out that the object of their heist was to be put up for auction in the week ahead, that it was to be inspected in the coming days and that the switch would have to occur later than originally planned, throwing all the previous aspects of their plot out the window and landing Mozzie, Neal, and yes, Bartimaeus, in a deep pool of uncertainty. And if there was one thing Neal hated, it was treading dark waters full of the unknown.

Speaking of dark waters, Elizabeth is looking at him with apologetic eyes. "I know it's early, Neal, but I have an appointment at nine and the space needs some sprucing up before it's ready for clients."

"It's okay. Do you need me to do anything? I'm handy with a broom. Or I could go out and get some espresso. Did you know Peter likes espresso? That was news to me."

She smiles, and her smile is beautiful, just like she is. Guilt is like a brick wedged diagonally from his throat to the left part of his chest as he looks at her then, but he just smiles back. He never wanted to pull the wool over Elizabeth's eyes. Elizabeth has kind, warm eyes that only want the best for Neal, just like Peter, but he's been doing it since before Peter even left, has been going out on walks with Satchmo with Mozzie only two blocks away, exchanging news of his situation with new ideas of what devices they could use to obtain what they need to retrieve the diamond lion. And yesterday, he didn't lie to her. He was painting. But only after they'd bugged the auction house and gained access to the security cameras and who was this poor fool who was going to buy this perfect imitation of this ugly wrist wear, anyway? And why did they want it, and what was Neal doing stealing the real thing when Elizabeth was at home worrying after him? He'd be embarrassed about the curfew thing, about coming home to this perfect woman who wasn't much older than he was, to scoldings and juvenile if-I-can't-take-my-eyes-off-of-you-for-a-second-_well-then_ disciplinary actions, to authority handed down by Peter to someone who wasn't even in law enforcement, but he's too busy now. Too busy being a criminal, and too busy being ashamed of it.

Because what was he doing. What is he doing.

He doesn't know, but as for Elizabeth, she wants him to do both, and he does. He sweeps the floor with a broom he dances with just for her amusement, puts his hat on the top of the handle and swings as he cleans. She laughs, warns him to be careful when he performs a rather ungainly move and skids on the floor like he's a young Satchmo, not in full control of his puppy limbs and slippery paws, except Neal is not a puppy at all, is, in fact, a fully-grown man who lands on his backside when he doesn't heed her.

"Oww," he says, and peers up at her, wincing adorably, half a pained smile on his face.

It occurs to him then that Mozzie is right, and Peter is right, and almost anyone who's ever had to teach him anything in his adult life has always been right. Neal Caffrey is, indeed, just like a child. Because he wants her to say, "Oh, sweetie," and come to him with arms spread to hug him, put lips to his cheeks and forehead as she helps him up. That's what he wants. What happens is this:

"Oh, Neal," she sighs, her eyes rolling to the ceiling. She does come to him and helps him back to his feet, but the only kiss he gets is from her hand, firmly brushing dust off the back of his suit trousers. She plucks his hat off the broom handle and reaches up, situates it on his head. "Our coffee maker is on the fritz. I'm going to need you to go out and get me multiple cups. We're lucky Victoria is so vocal about her wants, I know exactly what to get her. Here." She stuffs a piece of paper in his hand. "There's a list. Try to be back here in forty-five minutes at the latest okay?"

And off he goes. He ponders briefly checking in with Mozzie, taking a gander at the security tapes, rolling out a few more ideas, but forty-five minutes is about three in the city and there's no time. Besides, he's still not sure why he's doing what he's doing. Or what he's doing. Or who he even is.

Anyway.


End file.
